April 9, 2016 Choking Trail
The stagnant air gasps with missed opportunities, lack of obedience, refusal to respond, avoidable mishaps, misguided decisions, depression, distrust, disillusionment, disorderly conduct, denial, and failure. Anxiety, fret, insecurity, uncertainty, nervousness, and trauma, breath in and breath out. Agitation, fighting, disfigurement, panic, tension, and terrorized fear mark the atmosphere. The exit is blocked, the unmovable boulder means no way out. The pale, dim yellowed, flickering light has extinguished. You are trapped, you begin to hyperventilate. There are no colors and there are no options. Life is limited, lacking, loveless, lifeless and full of sharp, painful pieces of chard.
The straight path was through a wilderness of choking dust. The story was written on the back of all things haunting, terrorizing and wrong. Relationships dishonored, bodies betrayed, and alliances are broken. A brother kills his only brother not for anything other than jealousy, pure disgusting coveting, and leaves others to grieve and heave with confusion. Disobedience always smears others in its path with a coat of vagueness that fogs the view and leaves shame to fill the dislodged foundations.
The story's scene is blackened with disease, blame, denial, exhaustion and crippling fear. This is the story's universal setting. The characters, steeped in denial, is also universal encompassing everyone in its scope. No one is left out, no one. Everyone who ever was, is, or will be, on the sickened planet is swept into the same wreaking dumpster. No one, no one can escape. All the denial in the world does not remove the reality. You and I wreak and are clothed in black shame.
The story pushes forward over the dust filled shame as this treacherous, lifeless, trail fills with answers, visions, meaning, rescue. But our vision is betrayed. We had hoped for something more, something more beautiful, more recognizable. Our rescue, our Hope, rides a plain donkey. A donkey? An innocuous beast of burden clomping on a rocky trail. Where is the beauty in this? Where is the lovely beat of the horse's hooves? A donkey?
Our rescue, our Hope, is born in an animal house, a manger, not sought by humans for creature comfort, there is no room for Him, for Hope, in other places. It remains true even still, no room. Hope needs not pristine settings. Never has to. Never will. Hope choses death to be the means of rescue and none of this makes sense. But it is imperative to understand that Hope and circumstances have nothing in common and will never depend on one another. Hope is Hope, regardless.
Sin smears, Hope clears. Hope ushers in with a humble announcement. Power needs no fanfare. What was vague becomes vision. Confusion leaves, there is no room with understanding. Circumstances remain, for though Hope clears the air it does not need circumstances to clear out, it sits on the back of all things awful and brings rescue. Many attempt to clean for Hope and that is plain absurdity at best. Hope solicits no help.
Hope moved the boulder and floods a dull scene with brilliant light. To our nooks, crannies, and unseen crevices, Hope reveals. Hope needs not our goodness for it is Good. Hope was birthed in filth, rode an unworthy beast, dies shamefully, and rises above to rescue us. Hope is the living God come to earth.
Will you take His Hand?